


The Monologue

by Claudia_flies



Category: V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:32:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world turns, and things get better. A soliloquy to Finch and Dominic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monologue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2007. Lyrics by Regina Spector

 

_I loved you first, I loved you first_   
_Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth_

_And history books forgot about us_   
_And the bible didn't mention us_

  
  
Over the years you’ve made yourself not think about it, forced yourself into some kind of immunity. Withdrawal from exposure, a self-styled mask, and isolation. You never really figured why they didn’t take you too. You were a party member, sure. You had friends in the right places, maybe. The truth probably is that you were never important enough to raise any concerns. Quiet and fastidious. You had the kind of silent and passive rebellion the party did not know how to weed out, and after a while just left alone.   
  
You think of all this as you watch the Parliament burn with Evey Hammond, because in the end you start thinking about the beginning.   
  
You think about the worry lines that deepen around Dominic’s eyes when he is tired. It is the first time in a long, long while that you let a thought like that into your mind without punishment. When the man had been transferred to your unit all those years ago, you had to wear a rubber band around your left wrist for months and months on end. Just to break the thought pattern, you told yourself, it’s not a punishment. But some days he would come to work with the top buttons of his crisp oxford shirt undone and with a smile on his face and your wrist would be red and angry by lunch, and edged with little cuts by the end of the day.   
  
Over the years you trained yourself not to think about him. Not fantasising, that you had to stop a long time before Dominic, but the silent and mundane thoughts which you knew would be your undoing in the end.   
  
Your boss, of course, thought that you didn’t like the man, and hence the band and the anger management. The boss was always a terrible judge of character, and of course in his maliciousness he made Dominic your partner. You snapped the band rather fiercely at that meeting. Dominic just smiled, rather bewildered at the nasty gleam in the boss’ eye.   
  
It became easier over time: the late nights and early mornings by the coffee machine. You got used to Dominic’s presence and stopped being so afraid all the time. You began to realise how lucky you were. You saw Dominic nearly every day, you ate lunch with him, and sat beside him in the freezing car in overnight stakeouts in January. You didn’t get to go to sleep next to him every night or spend the Christmas holidays with him, but you didn’t have a black bag over your head either. You convinced yourself that, in your cowardice, you had made the right choice all along.   
  
  
  
  
It’s been a week since Parliament. The rain stars as a slow trickle, but by the time you reach the A25, sheets of water are drowning the car and you can barely see three feet in front of you. Dominic pulls over on the muddy shoulder. The roads are almost empty, you don’t know if it is the fall of the government or the rain that has made people stay at home. The gray sheet of water makes you think of the past and the systems of surveillance that are no longer in place. The video and audio feeds were switched off after the explosion, or what was left of them after the riots. You don’t know who gave the order, and right now you don’t care. All you care about is that you are going to have to let Dominic go.   
  
Without surveillance and control your thoughts will run rampant. You look at Dominic who is trying to get the radio to pick up a channel.   
  
“You should accept the offer from Manchester.”  
  
Dominic turns slowly to face you and looks at you like you’re mad. You continue.  
  
“It’s a good position.”  
  
You try to sound earnest and Dominic just shakes his head.   
  
“You could make a real difference there. The force might not last long in London and...”  
  
“Godamnit Eric!”  
  
He suddenly bellows and you fall silent. You’ve never heard Dominic raise his voice or call you by your given name, well, not to your face anyway.   
  
He looks at you deploringly, like there is a joke and you are supposed to be in on it.   
  
“Why do you think I stayed all those years? For the stale coffee and the promise of a cheap golden retirement watch?”   
  
You look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. His shirt is crumbled this time, hair swept to the side by the rain and wind earlier in the day. He grabs your left arm, not unkindly, and pushes the sleeve down.  
  
After months of abuse the flesh had thickened, and developed into a band of scar tissue that is still circling your wrist. You didn’t need the band anymore to remind you. You only had to run your fingers over that unfeeling, uneven skin to keep your thoughts in check.   
  
Dominic’s hand wraps completely around your wrist, the puckered skin covered by his palm and fingers, and you think that managing your thoughts will never work again. You sit like that for a long while, Dominic’s fingers running over the scar and the vein on the underside of your wrist. You think that for a while you might have stopped breathing, stopped living, but Dominic’s fingers move over your pulse, proving you wrong.   
  
He kisses you then with your wrist still within the circle of his fingers and the rain covering the windows like a thick blanket. His lips are dry and taste of the coffee you both had in the office this morning. The breath that you were holding escapes as a whoosh against Dominic’s lips. His fingers scrabble a hold on your coat lapels trying to pull you closer in the cramped space of the car.   
  
But you are on a public road. You hold Dominic’s face between your hands and press your cheek against his. Dominic’s breath is rapid and uneven in your ears. You let him go and lean against the dashboard trying to gain back some of your composure. From the corner of your eye you can see Dominic’s hands squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. Slowly the rain begins to die away, and Dominic shifts the car back into gear and onto the road.  
  
“Where do you live?”   
  
You squeeze your wrist and give him your address without looking at him. You can’t look at him, not right now. Dominic parks illegally in front of your building and flips the police insignia into the front window.   
  
You didn’t draw the curtains that morning and the flat is dark. You move through the shadowed furniture with Dominic in a strange tuneless dance. In your isolation you have forgotten what other people felt like. You’ve forgotten the feel of muscle and sinew beneath your fingers. You have forgotten pleasure, and you gasp and hold your breath while Dominic is busy reminding you of all these things.   
  
You never imagined Dominic in your flat. You never thought what he would look like in his gray undershirt, peering despairingly into your empty cupboards. You watch as he fishes out an ancient box of PG Tips and puts the kettle on. You think that you ought to run down the street for some breakfast, instead you just stand in the doorway looking at Dominic’s profile bathed in the gray morning light.   
  
The department is in chaos, and nobody seems to mind or even notice how you and Dominic arrive within minutes of one another, or how Dominic is still wearing the same clothes as the day before. He makes the prefunctionary effort to check his emails and phone messages. You don’t bother. You just sit at your desk looking at him, your body still tingling like a limb that has been asleep and the circulation is just beginning to return.   
  
  
  
  
  
The chaos and anarchy of the past few weeks has changed into general confusion. People went back to their homes, most even went back to work. There was some looting and several robberies. You were rather amused at how eager the men were at turning their heads to these ordinary crimes.   
  
The Desk Sergeant calls you half-way through the day that Evey Hammond is there and he doesn’t know what to do with her. You go to the front desk to collect her. She sits quietly in the waiting room with a box resting on her knees. The officer working on the reception gives her suspicious glances, but she seems not to notice. She smiles at you and follows you through the labyrinth of corridors and offices.   
  
She tells you that she is here to collect Gordon’s things. It takes you a while to realise who she means. She sits in the visitor’s chair while you make the calls, trying to make small talk with Dominic. He is not too happy that the woman who maced him is sitting in his office, but in the end his public school upbringing wins over. They talk about the weather.   
  
Getting a removal order from the Ministry of Objectionable Materials is surprisingly easy. Almost everyone from the head offices have cut tail and run, and the secretary is suitably impressed by your title. The courier is already on his way to Scotland Yard when you place the phone back into its cradle. Dominic is relieved that he no longer needs to force conversation and shifts his attention back to his rapidly filling inbox.   
  
You offer Miss Hammond coffee, and apologise at the staleness of it as she slowly sips the back liquid. She pulls a worn-looking book from her bag and begins to read. You take it as a cue to return to work. Your own inbox is bursting and you try your best to filter the important from the general madness. Dominic is trying to download reports from the riots in Manchester and you move to stand by his desk.   
  
Without thinking Dominic grasps your writs with his free hand, thumb once again sliding over the scar. Instinctively you lean closer to him, your shoulder nearly touching his, trying to catch the faint echo of the pleasure you know his hands are capable of brining. You realise that you are breathing in sync with the movements of his finger, and at the same time you realise that Evey is staring at you, her eyes wide and lips forming a perfectly round o.   
  
Dominic doesn’t remove his hand. You don’t know if it is shock or sheer determination on his part. The moment is broken when the intercom bleeps into life. The delivery has arrived.   
  
The paintings and books take far more room than Evey’s moderately sized box allows. You manage to hunt around for a couple of bin liners for her and she seems grateful. Somehow she manages to pile the box and bags in her arms. You open the door for her and for a moment she hesitates. She tries to balance the box and the bags juggle precariously in her grasp.   
  
“I’m staying in his house. You can come for coffee if you want to. The both of you.”  
  
You watch her speechless, but Dominic nods.   
  
“Sure, Miss Hammond, we would like that.”  
  
She smiles then, a little sad and maybe just a bit hopeful, but that might be just your imagination. When the door shuts behind her, Dominic leans against your side and you can feel the releasing of the breath he has been holding. 


End file.
